


Q Chromosome {principio ad finem}

by ishougen



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Body Dysphoria, Gender Issues, Knotting, M/M, Omegaverse, Prompt Fill, Snarky 00Q, Stubborn Q
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-10 15:32:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishougen/pseuds/ishougen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q was not one for submission; he would not allow himself to be used, especially not now that he held the ability to create the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Soma I

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt fill for Café Q (cafeq.tumblr.com). It was supposed to be a quick one-shot, but it sort of ran away with me. This is also my first time writing Omegaverse so please let me know if I've done something terribly wrong D: Also, tremendous thanks to SarahEllie/tenpointsforQ and Jen (consultingwriters) over at tumblr for all of their support and encouragement - I couldn't have done this without you. And to everyone else: thank you for reading!

There was a pesky twinge in Q’s nether regions, something that wouldn’t go away even after a cold shower or a good wank, and that was how he knew he was entering yet another heat. Some Omegas enjoyed this recurring cycle, but it only made Q feel weak. His initial heat, which had come on unexpectedly (everyone had pinned him as a Beta, even himself, so he’d never gone in for genetics testing), had left him desperate and begging for relief from someone, anyone. His own hand, so adept at many other tasks, could not even reach the boundaries of satisfaction. As soon as he’d recovered enough to think clearly, he had immediately looked up alternatives to the traditional Omega lifestyle. Q was not one for submission; he would not allow himself to be used, especially not now that he held the ability to create the future.

The Beta Bars weren’t the perfect solution to Q’s problem, but they managed to satiate his all-encompassing physical desire for at least a little while. The Bars were not strictly legal; reproduction was the government’s major goal, and encouraging Omegas to live without mating went directly against every decree established since the last war. Nevertheless, most people turned a blind eye to such places. The Bars were underground, covert, easy to get in and out of without attracting unwanted attention. The Betas that congregated there provided a temporary escape and helped to alleviate the stress many Omegas experienced. Despite their illegality, these sorts of establishments were an important, if unsavoury, part of society.

It was to a Beta Bar that Q was currently headed. He never frequented just one, preferring instead to keep his face as unfamiliar as possible. It just wouldn’t do to have a needy Beta following him around. For safety’s sake, though, he always made sure to stick to Bars within a certain radius of his home. Not everyone approved of the Omega class’ relative freedom in choosing whether or not to mate, and sometimes there were incidents where one such Omega ended up in the hospital after a night out in a less-than-favourable part of town. Independent Omegas – especially ones like Q, with high-level occupations – needed to be careful. On this night, however, Q chose to push all such worries to the back of his mind. He slipped through the doors of the Bar, and the purple and blue strobe lights radiated over his lithe form in languid arcs as he made his way to the counter. Even before he had paid for his first drink, there were three Betas on his tail, scoping him out. This was typical. Q ignored them for the time being – his system needed more alcohol before he could allow himself to interact with them. He was only interested in the best ones, those who wouldn’t wimp out on the mattress.

He’d barely finished his first rum and coke before a man slid into the next seat over and called to the bartender to get Q another drink. When it arrived, he made sure to brush his knuckles against Q’s as he passed the drink over. As Q sipped, he took in the man’s appearance: a typical Beta, not too tall, dark hair, dark eyes that were somewhat clouded over by drink. No doubt this man needed some liquid courage before coming over. He was attractive enough, though, and not too aggressive, so when he invited Q to the dance floor the request was readily accepted.

At that point Q’s bloodstream had begun to absorb the alcohol and spread it throughout his limbs, making him just tipsy enough to let himself go a little. As he danced with the Beta, their bodies came into contact more and more until they were grinding shamelessly. This was not out of place in the slightest; the dance floor was already filled with others like them, mainly pairs of Betas, but with the usual mix of Omegas thrown in too. As Q looped his arms around his partner’s neck, he reflected absently about how Omegas never danced with their own kind. In fact, they rarely interacted on a level deeper than casual friendship. They had nothing to offer one another, after all, no satiation, no future.

Q could feel the sheen of sweat on his forehead, and he knew his heat’s presence was obvious in the way his lips were parted and gleaming in the low light of the Bar. He was fully in heat now, completely entrenched in the cycle, so there was no need for restraint, no pressure to appear normal in front of the people who surrounded him. The Beta, undoubtedly emboldened by the powerful pheromones Q had been emitting all night, leaned in for a kiss. Q returned it eagerly and worked a hand into the man’s dark hair in order to pull him closer. At the same time, a small, frustrated groan rose in his throat. The contact was not enough, there was too much fabric in the way, so the sensations were dull and did little to keep his hunger at bay.

When they parted, Q couldn’t help but let out a guttural sound as he eyed the small string of saliva hanging between their lips. The Beta leaned forward, his lips trailing across Q’s cheek. “Come back to my place,” he whispered, his breath warm and damp, and Q let out another little sound as his body shivered involuntarily. His trousers were growing tighter by the second and he was suddenly uncomfortable; he felt too hot, too restricted. He decided it was about time to move things along, so he tugged on the Beta’s hand and they stumbled out the door together.

Q found the cool air to be a relief against his flushed skin, but it was only there for a second before they found their way to a cab and clambered inside, all tangled limbs and breathy words. The driver was clearly used to this – he’d worked the area for a long time, longer than Q knew or cared to know – so he drove off without more than a cursory glance in the rearview mirror. Thankfully, the Beta lived nearby; it was a five minute ride at best, which cut their desperate fumblings short, before they grew to fruition. Later, Q would remember the space between the car and the bed as nothing more than a blur. He could only see properly again when his back hit the mattress, when his vision was filled with the now inexplicably handsome Beta.

Alcohol glasses, he thought vaguely, were much better than the prescription lenses which now dangled precariously off the tip of his nose. Alcohol made everything and everyone much more attractive. Any plans for a new invention were cut off, however, as the subpar frames were removed along with the rest of his clothing. Somehow the Beta had also managed to strip himself, and the sudden press of the man’s heated skin against Q’s body drew a raw, animalistic noise from the Omega’s chest.

He hated himself for every second of this, but his body refused to listen, to quiet itself. It would not bend to Q’s will until it had been truly, utterly used, until he had accepted his biological identity and purpose.

Q could tell that the Beta wanted to go slower, to enjoy him more extensively. This was understandable: Omegas were typically reserved for the beds of Alphas, so Q’s brand of independence was a rare find indeed. As a general rule, though, Q didn’t really care about the feelings of Betas, so he ignored the man’s noises of protest and made sure the foreplay was quick. He almost brought his partner off entirely within the first five minutes, a feat which made him feel simultaneously pleased and disappointed. The threat of a premature end to their session made the Beta hurry up, and he began to prep Q perfunctorily. Such a step was hardly necessary, thanks to Q’s biological proclivities. After all, his body was designed to be fucked, so he supposed it was useful rather than disgusting that his hole was completely self-lubricated already. The Beta only had to press a couple of fingers inside to stretch him out a bit. Even that teasing amount made Q whimper and beg, his cheeks flushed, ass in the air like a good little Omega.

The first press of the man’s cock, the sensation of that outer ring of muscle giving way and allowing the much-needed intrusion, brought a wave of relief flooding through Q’s body – but it was quickly replaced by an even greater sense of desperation. His hips pressed back, taking the Beta into his body entirely, and a loud grunt slipped from his lips. Betas never moved fast enough, never found the right rhythm. This one was doing alright, but his size and skill were not up to par with Q’s expectations. The act itself was over in a matter of moments; Q just had to thrust backwards again and again, and soon enough he felt the Beta trembling in that telltale way. Thankfully, the man managed to remember Q’s neglected body at the last second. He reached around one of Q’s angular hips to wrap his fingers – his weak, unskilled, Beta fingers – around the Omega’s erection, where they jerked erratically, their inexperience painfully obvious. The pleasure built to a head and Q moaned deeply, his forehead pressed to the pillow, as a violent orgasm ripped its way through his body. The subsequent muscle spasms deep inside of his arsehole drew out his partner’s release, and Q couldn’t help but moan again as he was filled with the hot, thick, sterile Beta fluid. When the man finally pulled out, Q savoured the sensation as the liquid slipped down the inside of his thigh, and he sighed quietly before he collapsed onto the sheets.

As Q laid there, his body a sticky mess of weak limbs, he reflected that he was relatively lucky. The Beta, while not the best bedmate, was respectful enough to clean them both before he mumbled something about taking a shower and slipped away into an adjacent room. For a moment, Q contemplated staying, lying in this bed for the night, awakening to the man’s dark hair and dark eyes in the morning – but the alcohol had already begun to wear off, and he had no desire to come face to face with a Beta without his rum-and-coke–aided perception. So he whisked himself out of bed, collected his clothes and glasses, and made a quick exit as soon as the shower was turned on, its sound blocking out the disappointed thud of the closing door. The Beta would understand; after all, this union never held the promise of a future.


	2. Chroma I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q hated Alphas, but most of all he hated James Bond: Double-oh-Alpha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to the gorgeous SarahEllie (tenpointsforQ) for beta-ing! <3

Despite the previous evening’s tryst, that irritating twinge in Q’s groin was still there when he went into work the next day. After years of being an unpartnered Omega, he understood that the quarterly cycles meant he would never truly feel free of his genes’ need for procreation. The Betas he slept with – typically one each night, but sometimes more if things were really unbearable – could never quell his innate, though unwanted, need to have an Alpha, a partner, someone to spend his life with. Since his first heat he had tried to avoid their kind altogether, on the off chance that one might choose him for a mate. Q was in no way suited to the typical Omega lifestyle, which entailed staying home, raising children, and allowing himself to be used by someone bigger and stronger just because they shared a ridiculous genetic “bond”. In refusing to sleep with Alphas, he had effectively cut off such a destiny forever.

Generally, Q had two methods of dealing with the inevitable distraction which accompanied heat cycles: he would either take some suppressants to mute the worst of it and then sleep around with guys he met at Beta Bars, or suffer through without the mood-quelling drugs in order to lose himself in his work. He refused to take medication while on the job, because it dulled his senses and made him sloppy. Being the best in his field was something Q prized; he wouldn’t allow that to be taken away from him no matter how tight his pants were or how hot the office seemed to get.

This particular day began in a promising fashion. The Silva incident was still fresh, and a plethora of damage recovery needed to be carried out on MI6’s compromised network: firewall upgrades, spyware scanning, research into the man’s methods, etcetera. Most of the Q Branch employees could easily handle projects of this magnitude, but Q was determined to oversee each operation personally. He would not let such a huge breach happen again while he held the title of quartermaster. So Q spent the morning going over the work his underlings had completed and successfully managed to forget his body for a few precious hours. It was only the grumbling of his stomach that finally snapped him out of his headspace. Unlike his other bodily urges, hunger was not connected to his Omegan biology; as such, Q had no qualms about giving in to it.

He got up from his desk and stretched a little before moving over to the mini fridge, which he had installed in the office during his first week as quartermaster. The official reason for its existence, as noted in the MI6 expenses database, was that it increased efficiency, but in truth Q had done it to keep the others from stealing all his snacks. The prospect of a sandwich made his stomach grumble again, and, filled with anticipation, Q leaned down to open the door. What the cool metal chest revealed, however, was not a cornucopia of convenient snacks and drinks, but instead only empty shelves and a half-drunk bottle of water from months ago. He let out a frustrated groan and rubbed a hand through his hair, feeling irked. Once again, his body had betrayed him: he’d been too caught up in his heat to remember that the fridge needed refilling. There was nothing for it but to head downstairs to the cafeteria.

As Q made his way out of the branch and down the stairs – the elevator felt far too slow for his energy-addled body – he tried to brace himself for this foray into the jungle of MI6’s dining area. It wasn’t that the food was terrible; in fact, he quite enjoyed some of the dishes the cooks whipped up, especially the little caramel cakes standing row upon row at the end of the dessert counter. No, the food was not the problem. It was the people eating that food who worried him.

Upon entering the large, brightly-lit cafeteria, Q scanned the room quickly and breathed a small sigh of relief. It seemed that his most frequent assailants were dining elsewhere today. He picked up a tray and joined the queue of miscellaneous MI6 employees, steadily making his way along and pointedly avoiding eye contact. As much as the lunch ladies seemed to love him, he had no desire for them to see the strange, wild look on his face. It was a heat-triggered expression which he had difficulty controlling at the best of times.Given how hungry he was at the moment, schooling his features into a friendly look was basically impossible.

After filling his tray with some roast beef and mashed potatoes, he steered himself towards an empty table near the window. He slid into a chair and prepared to tuck in, but he had barely lifted the first forkful of meat to his lips before someone else sat down opposite him. It was a balding man with a weary, exasperated demeanour, whose tray of food looked quite similar to Q’s. As much as Q didn’t feel like speaking to anyone, he wasn’t about to just ignore his lunchmate.

“Tanner,” he said with a polite nod as he glanced up at his coworker. The Chief of Staff seemed more tired than usual. “M giving you trouble?”

Tanner shot him a look and sipped at his coffee before he replied, “Same as always.”

"I hope you don’t mean trouble at home,” came a woman’s voice, and Q had to hold in a groan as Moneypenny joined them at the table. The smug look on her face was almost enough to make Q abandon his lunch and run back up to his office. Based on Tanner’s expression, he was experiencing a similar sentiment.

“I thought we agreed not to discuss such things at work,” he said in a miffed tone, his cheeks slightly pink. It was odd, Q thought, to see Tanner blush, and he stared curiosly at the rare phenomenon until he was snapped out of his reverie by another comment of Moneypenny’s.

“I see you’re having issues of your own in that regard, Q.” She gestured pointedly to Q’s plate which, with its lack of vegetables and mountain of beef, spoke volumes about his hormone-induced food preferences. “Is it that time again?”

It was Q’s turn to blush. Moneypenny always had a knack for figuring out details about one’s private life and then using them to her own ends – ends which were, more often than not, tied to self-gratification. She’d uncovered the story about his Omegan genetics and personal attitude towards them long before any of the others, and she’d teased him about it ever since. Feeling off-put, Q poked at his lunch moodily and mumbled, “Tell the whole cafeteria, why don’t you.”

This elicted a bright, cheerful laugh from the woman, her clear eyes scrunched up a little at the corners. “I’m just trying to help! No need to get all defensive.” She reached out to touch Q’s wrist, and when he looked up her gaze was playful but also gentle, as though she was trying to say that she understood. “So, how are those boys at the Beta Bars treating you?”

The mention of the Bars drew a few curious stares from the employees around them. Q quickly retracted his hand from Moneypenny’s grip, a sour expression tightening his features. He glanced over at Tanner with a “please help” expression and the other man, ever observant, jumped immediately to his aid.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to discuss such things here,” he said tactfully as he leaned closer to Moneypenny, trying to rein her in with his body language. “It could damage Q’s reputation – ”

“Don’t be silly,” Moneypenny replied, waving her hand through the air carelessly. “Everyone knows about Q’s... coping mechanisms. I just want to make sure he’s being safe. Besides,” and here she mimicked Tanner’s forward lean, narrowing her eyes, “if anyone’s reputation stands to be damaged by these things, it’s yours, isn’t it?”

Tanner’s blush turned a shade darker, and he swallowed audibly as he sat back, eyes wide and wary. Q was impressed, as always, by Moneypenny’s brazen attitude and absolute knowledge of the inner workings of every MI6 employee. The truth of the matter was that Tanner had once frequented Beta Bars himself and, in fact, had been the one to tell Q about them. As far as anyone knew, the Chief of Staff hadn’t visited one for at least a year, ever since Mallory’s transition to being the new M. The two incidents were initially linked together by Moneypenny herself, and while no one spoke openly about it in the office, the relationship between the new head of MI6 and his right-hand man was a common topic at after-work team-building events.

A sudden buzzing sound cut off any retort Tanner had been attempting to make, and he stood suddenly as he checked his mobile. A mumbled apology spilled from his lips before he rushed off, leaving his half-eaten lunch behind. As they watched him leave, Q saw Moneypenny raise an eyebrow.

“Like a dog on a leash,” she said, although her tone was affectionate rather than dismissive. She turned to face Q once more, her eyes bright with curiosity. “So, Q, how are you getting along? Still going out to the Bars every night?”

This was a conversation Q definitely did not feel like having, especially not in a public area which also happened to be a part of his workplace. He knew, however, that Moneypenny would not let up, so he sighed and poked at his food some more before he replied. “Things are the same as always, Moneypenny, you know that.”

Her expression softened somewhat, but her words were urgent and full of care. “I know. I’m just worried about you. It can be dangerous out there, Q, and I don’t want you getting hurt because you’re too stubborn.”

This made Q frown, and he leaned back in his chair, trying to get some distance. “That’s how I’ve decided to live my life. You don’t need to worry about me, I can do that just fine on my own.” He played with the idea of getting up and leaving, but at that moment yet another MI6 employee decided to cut into the conversation – and this particular interloper changed the game entirely.

“Q can make his own decisions,” said the strong, rough-hewn voice, as those ice-blue eyes stared not at Moneypenny but at Q. The muscular, suit-covered body slid into Tanner’s vacated seat and large, calloused hands reached out push the left-behind tray to the side. It was replaced by a new tray, one laden with more food than Q had eaten in the past two days combined. Along with that imposing figure came the powerful scent of an Alpha on the prowl, the kind of smell that only belonged to the top of their class.

“A bit of guidance doesn’t hurt,” Moneypenny replied evenly, not put off in the slightest. “And since when do you eat in the cafeteria, James?”

James Bond smiled his signature smile and took a large bite of roast beef, which he chewed slowly and swallowed with relish, before he replied quietly, “I felt like taking a walk today.”

Bullshit, thought Q, who had looked down at his own food as soon as Bond appeared in his field of vision. The bastard didn’t just mill about MI6 for fun; he was always on a mission, always out for something, and Q had a feeling he knew what this particular jaunt was all about.

Another buzzing sound cut through the air, and this time it was Moneypenny’s turn to stand. Unlike Tanner, she didn’t rush off; instead, she took one last, long glance at Q and said seriously, “Be careful, Q. You never know what kind of guys might come after someone as gorgeous as you.” She gave him a wink, shot a withering look at Bond, and finally made her exit, heels clicking authoritatively against the tiled floor.

Bond and Q sat in silence for a few long, uncomfortable moments, the agent eating his lunch calmly and the quartermaster doing his best to fight the growing tent in his pants. He avoided the double ohs purposely because of they effect they had on his ridiculous, hormone-addled body; being sought out by one like this was incredibly frustrating. All he wanted to do was eat his lunch in peace.

Unable to contain himself any longer, Q chanced a look up at Bond. To his surprise the man was staring directly at him, that piercing blue cutting through all of Q’s meagre defenses. The space between them felt charged, as though an electric current had been trapped there, and try as he might Q could not look away. It took him a moment to realize that Bond had begun to speak, and his mind hurried to catch up.

“She’s right, you know.” The agent’s tone was impenetrable; even though the words themselves indicated care, it was impossible to tell how Bond felt about the matter. “It’s dangerous to sleep around.”

Q snorted derisively at this, his lips quirking upwards in a half-snarl, half-smirk. “You’re one to talk.”

“I’m different than you are,” Bond shot back, his voice still even, still stable. Confidence rolled off of him in waves and it made Q even more frustrated. Bond could do anything he wanted, all because he was blessed with a decent chemical makeup. Bond never had to worry about safety or sex. Bond’s life would always be laid out for him like a golden brick road, offering up untold pleasures without a hint of consequence.

Q hated Alphas, but most of all he hated James Bond: Double-oh-Alpha.

“I have to get back to work,” Q said abruptly. He grabbed his now-cold tray of food and stood, trying to fight his body’s instinct to jump at Bond and rub shamelessly against him. “Have a good day, double oh seven.” As he walked away, he heard the agent call out after him, but he ignored it. He would not allow himself to be ensnared by that man; not now, not ever.

By the time Q made it back to his office he felt exhausted, mentally as well as physically. Being around Alpha pheromones during a heat was the greatest test of his willpower. He had managed to fight off the basic urges, but his legs were shaking terribly and he couldn’t focus. As much as Q cared about his work, he knew he’d never get anything done in such a state, so he reached into the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a slim, cylindrical container. Without looking he popped it open and shook out two small, blue pills, which he placed onto his tongue and swallowed dry. Then he sat down and waited for the suppressants to kick in.

Thankfully the drug was fast-acting; soon Q was able to resume his work, albeit at a greatly reduced pace. He couldn’t manage the higher-security problems anymore, but the fog clouding his mind wasn’t powerful enough to prevent him from working on a few administrative tasks. By the time he’d run through the jobs possible to complete while under the influence, the clock read out an alarming 8:37. A quick peek out of the office door informed him that the rest of Q branch, and likely most of MI6, had gone home for the night.

Despite the aching need which filled his body, Q didn’t want to traverse the Beta Bars tonight. The conversation with Bond had sent his mind in an uncomfortable direction, and now he found it difficult to wrestle his thoughts back into work mode. So, for the second time that day, Q decided to pay a visit to a part of MI6 he usually ignored. At this hour, the pool was likely to be deserted. His mind occupied by thoughts of cool, refreshing water, Q made his way to the basement, eager for solitude.


	3. Soma II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately for Bond, Q had never liked the direct approach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to ferreuscelo for betaing!

As expected, the pool was entirely vacant. Since it was so late, half of the lights had been turned off, which created an eerie darkness broken only by the twinkling of the water’s surface. Q had come down here before, on nights like this one, when his body and mind were aflame with genetically-induced desire, so he knew the cleaning staff’s routine. They wouldn’t be around for another couple of hours – more than enough time to cool off a little.

Q stripped himself in the changeroom and left his discarded clothing on the floor. After a moment’s hesitation, he decided to peel off his underwear as well; the fabric clung to his skin like a jellyfish, warm and damp, and it took some effort to remove. He kicked the irksome fabric aside, then slipped off his glasses and set them carefully in the locker adjacent to his clothing. When he had finished, he padded out to the pool and took a precautionary glance around before he slipped eagerly into the cool water.

The liquid’s effect on his overheated body was almost immediate. Both his skin and his mind began to calm down, and his heartbeat slowed from its frenetic pace back to a regular rhythm. Q stayed under for as long as possible before he broke the surface to take a deep, cleansing breath. He propelled himself forward and lazily began to swim long, slow laps. Despite his attempts to take his mind off of things, though, within moments his brain had returned to the day’s events, analyzing every minute detail and minuscule miscalculation. Try as he might, Q couldn’t help but overthink things; perhaps that was why he had become quartermaster at such a young age.

Bond, of course, figured predominantly in his memory. A grimace surfaced on Q’s face as he recalled the agent’s smirk and the way he so confidently undermined everything the quartermaster had worked to become. Bond was irritating enough already, what with his unexpected visits to Q Branch and blatant disregard for taxpayer-funded technology; appearing in the middle of Q’s heat just to badger him about his lifestyle was more than Q could stand. The agent was, of course, fully aware of Q’s precarious hormonal state – Alphas could smell an Omega in heat from a mile away.

It wasn’t as though the other double-ohs treated Q this way, either. They weren’t the most respectful group of Alphas, but they treated his age and Omega status with a sort of nonchalance which, in this world of prejudice and class-based cruelty, was very much appreciated. If Q happened to be going through a particularly difficult cycle, the double-ohs would collect their equipment through Q branch’s second-in-command, or R, or even Tanner. They never violated Q’s space, never came into his office, never interrupted his work. For a bunch of highly-trained and objectively beautiful Alphas, they were relatively decent people. But Bond – that man just didn’t know when to quit.

Q finished another lap and paused, holding on to the pool’s edge as he got his breath back. When he reached up to wipe the water out of his eyes, an unexpected splashing sound echoed from the other side of the room. Q instinctively curled in on himself as he scanned the water’s surface; all he could make out was a large shadow heading towards him, with a trail of ripples following in the creature’s wake. Just as the figure reached the centre of the pool, however, it turned and began to swim back towards its starting point. As it broke the surface, Q tried to spot any defining characteristics, but the distance combined with his lack of glasses made such a task impossible.

Not feeling up to an encounter with yet another MI6 staff member, Q heaved himself out of the water and made his way to the showers. The pool’s darkness gave way to an expansive, brightly-lit space, and he had to blink a bit as his eyes adjusted. The showering area had an open-concept design, with no stalls or doors, creating a large space with nowhere to hide. Q made his way to the back corner, as far from the pool as possible.

He turned on the shower and sighed quietly as the warm water washed away every trace of chlorine coating his body. The swim, despite having been truncated, had nonetheless helped to calm his nerves a little. A decision formed in Q’s mind as he worked his long, thin fingers through his damp hair: he would speak to M about the Bond situation. Q couldn’t deal with Bond’s predatory stalking on top of his own rebellious hormones, and while M didn’t normally get involved in employee affairs, the effect it was having on Q’s work would surely convince the man to intervene. Despite his Alpha status, M was a remarkably reserved person; Q attributed this to his involvement in the genetic testing that had gone on during the war. The first of the species were always a little bit different from their later, biologically ‘correct’ versions.

The sound of the shower’s spray and the strong scent of chlorine drowned out Q’s normally sharp senses, so he didn’t hear the padding of feet on the tiled floor, nor did he catch a whiff of the powerful pheromones filling the air. He only realized someone had crept up behind him when a broad palm was placed on the wall next to his head and a voice murmured into his ear, “Why are you running away from me?”

Startled, Q spun around and came face-to-face with, of course, James Bond. There was very little space between their bodies; the agent had effectively pinned Q against the wall, although he hadn’t made any actual skin contact. Bond’s warm breath puffed rhythmically against the quartermaster’s face and made the younger man glance down reflexively. His eyes caught a flash of wet, black material, which was something of a relief; at least Bond wasn’t naked. Nonetheless, Q’s own body was entirely on display and, thanks to the now easily-recognizable Alpha scent filling his nostrils, his blood had begun its all-too-familiar migration south.

Q pressed himself back against the wall and winced slightly at the cool burn of the tiles against his warm skin. He did his best to compose himself before he replied, “You flatter yourself, double-oh-seven. I’m just going about my business. Could you kindly use another shower?” He gestured vaguely to the rest of the room, but it was a weak and halfhearted movement. That was a bad sign; his self-control was already slipping away.

Bond didn’t move. His eyes were trained on Q’s, their piercing blue slicing through Q’s own grey-green depths easily. When the agent spoke again, his voice was barely audible over the rushing water. “You don’t have to use those Betas,” he said, lips hardly moving. “I can help you.”

So that was what this was about – just as Q had anticipated. He snorted quietly and replied, his tone full of contempt, “You know very well why I live the way I do. I have no interest in sleeping with you, double oh seven.” Even as the words left Q’s mouth, his eyes couldn’t help but take in the way the water sluiced over Bond’s body, emphasizing each muscular curve and every masculine angle.

“Your body suggests otherwise,” Bond said evenly. As he spoke, his eyes flicked down along the long lines of Q’s lean physique; when they had returned to the quartermaster’s face, he added, “And you can call me James.”

Q ignored this last. No matter how much his hormones betrayed him, he refused to play along by repeating the agent’s name. “My _body_ – ” he spat the word out as though it was a distasteful poison – “does not properly reflect my thoughts, thanks to an unfortunate genetic accident.”

Bond smiled faintly, his eyes glinting with amusement. “We cannot change what we are born with.”

The words made Q growl quietly in the back of his throat, an instinctive reaction he’d been unable to train himself out of. In an exasperated tone, he replied, “Really, double-oh-seven, you know the Speech doesn’t work on me.” The Speech – the words that had been passed down ever since the first batch of Alphas, Betas and Omegas had been created – had never held much meaning for Q. It was little more than government propaganda, and the quotation reminded him yet again how much he hated this entire society, this ridiculous place he had been born into and could never escape from.

A frown appeared on Bond’s face and he shifted a little, giving Q more space but keeping him hemmed in. “I can help you,” he repeated, and there was something more to the words this time, something akin to desperation. Q knew it was just Bond being manipulative; how could it possibly be anything else?

Q went silent for a moment as he closed his eyes, trying to repress the arousal stirring deep within his veins. Bond was so close their bodies were almost touching – one more inch and Q would be able to feel the agent’s skin against his own. He could give in now and let Bond take him right there, under the warm water, in the depths of MI6; their sounds would echo through the vacant room, and when they were done the cleanup would be quick and efficient. Every molecule in Q’s body urged him to close the distance, to give himself up. Suddenly, he realized that Bond had done this on purpose: by leaving that space between them, he had made it Q’s responsibility to take the first step.

A typical Alpha move, Q thought bitterly. Make the Omega do all the work.

He forced himself to open his eyes again and stared up at Bond, doing his best to return the man’s gaze. “I do not require any help,” he said firmly, his features reassembling themselves into an overly-polite veneer. “Especially if said help is coming from an Alpha.” _Most especially if it’s coming from you,_ his mind supplied, though his well-developed sense of self-preservation made him bite back the words before they materialized.

Without missing a beat, Bond shot back, “There’s a natural order to this world.” A hint of anger flashed in his eyes before he tilted his head forward, so that his nose was pressed into the hair just behind Q’s ear. When Bond spoke again, Q swore he could feel the agent smirking cruelly. “You can only fight for so long, Q.”

The quartermaster let out a laugh of disbelief before he responded, “You need to re-read your intel. If you’re expecting me to behave like a good little Omega – ”

“Not even for me?” interrupted Bond. His voice was quieter than ever now, but his words seemed to roar in Q’s ear, louder than even the pounding of the quartermaster’s heart. The agent pulled back ever so slightly, His face was now only millimetres from Q’s, and his unyielding gaze slowly made its way down from Q’s eyes to his lips. “Not even for me, Q?” he repeated, his voice silky and suave, every inch the renowned spy he had become.

The air between them was now fraught with tension. The heat of their breath intermingled, increasing the potency of Bond’s already-overpowering pheromones. It would only take the slightest movement, just a tiny lean forward, and Q would have accepted the destiny given to him at birth. With one tiny gesture he could set himself on the correct path.

Unfortunately for Bond, Q had never liked the direct approach.

With all the willpower he could muster, Q glared at Bond and whispered viciously, “I’m not like the other notches in your bedpost.”

The larger man’s expression changed almost imperceptibly, but Q didn’t care whether it was surprise or anger that flashed in those blue eyes. With the last of his strength he pressed his palms against Bond’s chest and pushed. The meagre force normally wouldn’t have had any effect on the agent’s formidable body, but perhaps Bond was caught off-guard; in any case, he took a stumbling step backwards, which gave Q enough room to slip away. Then, without looking back, he ran.

He didn’t stop until he reached the changeroom; even then, he paused only long enough to pull on his clothes and glasses, not caring about the moisture on his skin seeping into the fabric. It was only after he had made it back to his office, locked the door, and sank into a chair that Q realized he was trembling.

This additional sign of bodily weakness made him cry out in frustration. His mind was burning with hatred and, as he buried his face in his palms, he thought angrily, _Stupid Bond. You don’t understand anything._

It took a few moments and several deep breaths before Q had calmed himself down. When the cold that permeated his body became too hard to ignore, he slowly unfolded himself and rose from his chair. He kept some spare clothing on hand in the event of a technological mishap; the neatly-pressed pieces would suffice until he got back to his flat, where his pajamas and tea stash awaited his return. As he crossed the room, his eyes wandered over the desk and paused as they noticed the blinking red light on his phone. He picked it up and scanned the screen quickly before letting out a quiet, defeated groan.

_Q, don’t forget about the party after work tomorrow! Come to my office at 5 and I’ll drive you over. The others are meeting us there. Happy early birthday! Kisses, Moneypenny._

He had, indeed, forgotten. There was no way he could blow this off; Moneypenny had arranged everything, and if he didn’t show up she’d probably poison his tea. He had no choice but to show up and pretend to have a good time. He could only hope that, If he acted drunk enough, she would send him home early.

As he peeled off his sodden clothing, Q managed to find one bright spot in this disastrous affair. Bond was flying to South Africa the next day to take out the head of a drug-smuggling ring. There was no way he’d be able to come to the party, no matter how badly Moneypenny wanted him to.


	4. Chroma II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond didn’t move, but the slightest hint of annoyance betrayed itself upon his face. “Q, you’re drunk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus, everyone - work ate my soul. Hoping to finish this up soon!

The next day, Q did as he was told – but not before taking a few precautions. He usually avoided taking suppressants unless he really needed them; he disliked the way they made him feel, as though everything was happening on the other side of a slightly-opaque window. Nonetheless, he had a feeling he’d be encountering his fair share of Alphas tonight and, since he was still in heat, he couldn’t rely on his own self-restraint. So he popped a couple of the small pills into his mouth before leaving his office and heading upstairs to meet Moneypenny.

As promised, she  was waiting for him with an eager smile on her face. “Shall we go, then?” she asked. Then, without giving Q time to answer, she led him down into the parking garage. Tanner and R were both waiting for them there; to his surprise and slight embarrassment, R was holding a brightly-decorated bag and a box of cupcakes.

“It’s your birthday,” she said meekly, withering somewhat under Q’s glare. Moneypenny shot him a look and ushered everyone into the car. She hit the gas before anyone had a chance to buckle their seatbelts, which made Q curse inwardly for the fifth time in as many minutes. He did his best to look on the bright side: it was a Friday, so he would have the next two days to recover from whatever happened tonight.

Somehow they made it to the pub unscathed and spent the next couple of hours rather uneventfully getting more and more drunk. The gift turned out to be a ridiculous Christmas sweater emblazoned with tiny kittens curled into Q shapes; from R’s approval-seeking gaze, the quartermaster could tell she had knit it herself, so he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He did manage to ward off Moneypenny’s cries of “Put it on! Put it on!”, but only by agreeing to what was, in his opinion, the cruelest drinking game ever invented.

“Never have I ever...” Moneypenny began, smirking at Q so playfully he couldn’t help but cringe, “...been stalked by James Bond.”

Q took a long, slow drink, staring daggers at Moneypenny over the rim of his glass. No one else drank, and it made the woman’s smirk widen. When he had set his glass down, Q muttered darkly, “It’s not my fault he’s an egotistical dickbag.”

“An egotistical dickbag with a thing for pretty boys with fluffy hair,” Moneypenny shot back, raising an eyebrow. Beside her, Tanner was turning red, and R looked noticeably uncomfortable.

Q glanced away and tried to suppress an angry frown. He wasn’t nearly drunk enough to discuss last night’s shower incident, and he didn’t particularly want to divulge that information anyhow – especially not to Moneypenny. Telling her would be as good as shouting it over the broadcast system in MI6; come Monday and everyone would know about it. “I don’t really want to talk about this here,” he said, his fingers tapping anxiously on the worn oaken tabletop.

Moneypenny’s face lit up, and Q knew immediately that something terrible was about to happen.

“Good thing I made additional plans, then,” she said, waving the waiter over and tossing him some cash before standing up. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

“Leaving?” squeaked R, whose eyes had widened with a mixture of fear and surprise. Tanner looked somewhat flustered as well; apparently neither of them had been informed about these “additional plans”.

Moneypenny’s gaze didn’t leave Q’s face when she spoke again, and he could have sworn her eyes were glinting with success. He knew that look; it was the one a cat got when it had trapped a mouse in its hole.

“We’re going to the new club around the corner. I got a special invite from the manager.”

Tanner balked. “I don’t think – ”

“You shush,” Moneypenny replied, taking him by the wrist and beckoning for R and Q to follow. “It’s Q’s birthday and we’re going to have a good time! Besides, there’s another surprise waiting there for you.” She glanced back at Q and winked, and the quartermaster felt a hole open up in his stomach. He hated surprises.

The club was within walking distance, so they didn’t have to endure another round of Moneypenny’s driving. Q figured she knew better than to get behind the wheel in this state, but she was somewhat unpredictable; apparently Tanner felt the same way, because he made a quick phone call requesting that her car be picked up by an MI6 employee. If any of this bothered her, she didn’t let on. The alcohol made her even more cheerful than usual, and she was laughing freely as she led them along like ducklings.

The cool night air felt good against Q’s flushed face, and he allowed himself to take a few deep breaths and relax somewhat. Despite everything, he actually was having a fairly good time. If Moneypenny hadn’t set this up, he’d have just been at home with his cat, playing video games or watching some silly television program. It felt kind of nice to have people to talk to in real life, even if they were his coworkers.

Q’s train of thought was derailed as Moneypenny announced their arrival at the club. The facade was just as ostentatiously luminescent as Q had expected it to be; above their heads, red and blue lights flickered in oddly rhythmic patterns to form the words “Revolution Nightclub”. There was a long line of people jostling to get in, and two huge, rather bored-looking men guarding the entrance.

Before anyone could back out, Moneypenny was pulling them all inside, flashing a card of some sort at the bouncer and heading straight for the bar. It was packed; Q had never smelled so many clashing pheromones at once. He wondered distantly how Tanner could put up with it before remembering that his bond with Mallory made the scent of other Alphas almost nonexistent. Q himself wrinkled his nose and focused on walking as straight as he could; even with the help of the suppressants, the cloying scent of a dozen different Alphas threatened to distract him completely.

Moneypenny gave the bartender one of her signature winks and ordered a round of tequila shots. While she was busy teaching R the intricacies of salt-licking and lime-sucking, Tanner turned to Q and leaned in to murmur, “I think she’s got something up her sleeve for you.”

Q frowned in distaste, but before he could reply Moneypenny was thrusting a shot glass at his face. With a sigh and a shrug Q followed her lead, wincing at the burn of the alcohol and the acidity of the lime. As the drink’s heat pooled in his stomach, he found himself wanting more – more of the distraction and relaxation that brown liquid promised. Soon they had finished another round, and then another, and Q felt happy for the first time in _weeks_. At some point, Tanner’s arm draped itself across his shoulders and Q leaned against his fellow Omega companionably, their cheeks flushed and their bodies damp with sweat.

A familiar song came on and Q could have sworn he heard Moneypenny cry “This mah jam!” before she pulled R out onto the dancefloor and disappeared into the crowd. Q laughed and pulled away from Tanner to take another drink, throwing his head back and letting his eyes slip shut. His head buzzed with a mixture of drunkenness, noise and hormones, drowning out his stress completely. _Maybe Moneypenny’s on to something with this whole nightclub thing_ , he thought absently.

When he reopened his eyes there was a handsome face inches from his own and his body immediately, instinctively tensed up. The face had blue eyes and blonde hair and when it smiled there was a strange shifting along its jawline, as though the bones there had been rearranged just a little.

“Come dance with me, _mi querido_ ,” the face said, and the voice that came from those lips was like honey in Q’s ears. He nodded faintly before allowing himself to be led out onto the floor, through the crush of people to the epicentre of the writhing, gyrating crowd. His hand burned where the man’s skin met his own, burned with a heat that magnified the dormant desire running through his veins, and beneath that overpowering cologne Q scented the telltale aroma of an unmated Alpha.

This was dangerous. For some reason, the suppressants weren’t acting the way they were meant to – his body was crying out for this Alpha, desperate and needy. His mind shouted at him _don’t do it, don’t let him touch you,_ but the tequila and the noise and the way his pants suddenly tightened cut off all rational thought. He wanted to forget about everything, forget about Alphas and Omegas and the ridiculous society that restricted him from living the way he wanted to. The man was smiling at him, his eyes warm and inviting, and the blueness of those eyes was deep and luxurious, nothing at all like the icy, brittle gaze of James Bond.

Q felt his body move closer without conscious thought and then there were hands on hips and their bodies were pressed together, out of both desire and necessity because there simply was no room, and oh Q had forgotten how good this could feel, how fulfilled he could be simply by allowing an Alpha to touch him, to guide him. There was no way to hide the tent in his pants but his partner didn’t seem to mind; on the contrary, he pressed back, and a quiet gasp fluttered away from Q’s lips as he felt a more than equal response in the other man’s trousers. They weren’t dancing so much as grinding shamelessly against one another. It didn’t matter that Q had never been to a nightclub before, it didn’t matter that he never wanted to find a mate, nothing mattered anymore because suddenly there were warm lips against his own and there were fingers curled tight into his hair and oh, _oh,_ the the friction between them was too much for his hormone-addled body and _oh_ he was going to spill himself right there and then –

– and then, suddenly, there was air. Q blinked his eyes open in time to see the man’s expression go from seductive to surprised as his body was yanked away by someone Q could not see. Before he could respond he was being pulled roughly through the crowds of people, knocked this way and that, and then the cold air was biting at his flushed skin and he was outside and it was quiet, too quiet, and his ears pounded with the sudden stillness of it all.

He looked down to see a hand on his wrist, the fingers blunt and unforgiving. His eyes moved from that hand up along a muscular arm clad in dull black leather, up past a pair of broad shoulders, up into the too-bright, ice-blue eyes of a man who should have been half a world away.

“Don’t do that,” James Bond said, his voice rough as gravel, his grip loose but powerful around Q’s thin wrist.

Later, Q would credit himself with maintaining at least some presence of mind. “You should be in Africa,” he slurred, his eyebrows knitting together. Vaguely, his brain registered their location; the lack of a lineup and bouncers indicated that they were in the alleyway behind the club, completely alone, save for the occasional rat or two.

Bond was quiet for a long moment, his  eyes never leaving Q’s face. His expression was impenetrable. “Moneypenny pulled some strings.”

 _Of course_. It was just like her to butt into Q’s private affairs – no doubt she thought it was “for his own good” or something similarly idiotic. The heat that had pooled in his groin was now flickering through his veins and upwards into his chest, igniting the latent anger that had been buried there for far too long. He snapped his wrist away and, to his surprise, managed to escape Bond’s grip.

“You’ve no fucking right,” he snarled, a grimace on his face, “ _no fucking right_ , do you understand?”

Bond didn’t move, but the slightest hint of annoyance betrayed itself upon his face. “Q, you’re drunk.”

“Fuck you!” the quartermaster spat, and without thinking he suddenly swung out with his right fist, desiring nothing more than to smash Bond’s face in. Of course, being as drunk as he was, the effort was even more pathetic than it normally would have been. As such, the agent easily caught his wrist and held it in mid-air, his grip just tight enough to warn but not to hurt.

“Stop being stupid,” Bond said, and through the haze of alcohol clouding his mind Q could tell something was different about the agent. His voice wasn’t as cold, wasn’t lacking passion the way it always did over the intercom or in the gunroom or next to his ear. There was emotion there, something hot and alive and tangible, and Q suddenly began to understand.

The realization made him feel sick and, without warning, a wave of nausea overwhelmed him. He teetered for a moment on the edge of control, fighting off the weakness that was clawing at his insides; but then his stomach rolled and he doubled over, retching all over Bond’s shiny black shoes, throwing up every ounce of alcohol he’d consumed in the last few hours.

Bond said something, but there was a roaring in Q’s ears that drowned out all other sounds. He felt himself being lowered to his knees, and then there was a hand in front of his face and a warm, silken-feeling cloth was pressing itself against his mouth, wiping away the shameful mess. He blinked once, twice, and his vision began to clear a little; he could see Bond above him, speaking into a cellphone, saying something about a “car” and “pick up” and “Q”.

“Bond,” Q managed to croak out, his fingers grabbing weakly at the air, trying to tell the other man that he was going to pass out. The last thing he saw before the blackness consumed him were Bond’s eyes, those cold, brilliant blue eyes, looking down at him with what Q could have sworn was genuine concern.

Then he was out, spiraling into the void of unconsciousness.


	5. Soma III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a long silence between them as the Alpha registered the scene: Q lying in the rumpled sheets, his hair disheveled, a glazed, satisfied look on his face.

_Musk. Gunpowder. Cologne._

Q’s first thoughts upon waking were not thoughts at all, but scents, deeply masculine and filled with a dangerous sort of temptation. They were smells he associated with someone tall and powerful and guarded, someone who could kiss or kill with the same amount of ease. Q didn’t need to open his eyes to understand that he was somewhere with Bond, someplace that had been filled up with the essence of the agent’s being.

It was quiet. The only sound Q could make out was the faint, muffled hum of a machine somewhere in the distance. He tried to prise open his eyelids but had to shut them again almost immediately; wherever he was, it was far too bright. The light sent spikes of pain shooting through his skull so he curled in on himself, an unhappy noise escaping his lips. He hadn’t had a hangover this bad in years.

His fingers caught on some kind of soft material, and after shifting a little he understood that he was in a rather comfortable bed, beneath a warm blanket. He also realized that he was naked, save for his underwear.

Q’s thoughts began to race, but they were stopped by the pounding in his head. He wanted to understand, to remember what had happened, but he was physically unable to string together any coherent thoughts. It was as though his mental prowess had been replaced by a foreign physicality: he could practically feel the blood coursing through his veins. A strangely pleasurable sensation begin to fill his body, drowning out the migraine, but it took a good twenty seconds before Q realized where it was coming from: he was grinding his hips down against the smooth sheets, his cock completely erect and desperate for friction.

Anger flared within his chest, but try as he might he couldn’t stop himself. He felt so safe, so warm, so completely surrounded by everything Bond – Bond’s scent most especially, which was packed with pheromones telling Q to prepare for mating. Despite being aware of the effect they were having, Q was unable to keep from giving in. All of his usual self-restraint had disappeared, leaving him in a vulnerable, hormone-riddled state. His heat was more powerful now than ever before.

His willpower fading fast, Q’s hips began to move more urgently, and soon he was reaching down to curl his fingers around himself. The sensations drove all other thoughts from his mind; without thinking, he pressed his face against Bond’s pillow and inhaled deeply. The musky scent was so powerful that Q could almost imagine the agent lying there next to him, those too-bright eyes boring into his soul, urging him onwards. The blankets rustled around him and small gasps of pleasure fell from his lips, but he was totally oblivious to everything except the mental vision his hormones were creating. He could practically hear Bond’s voice in his ear, whispering how good he looked, what a perfect mate he was, how he was so small and tight and hot and –

Suddenly Q felt a wet, sticky sensation fill his already sweat-dampened palm, and relief rushed through his bloodstream, filling him with the kind of euphoria he’d heard about but never experienced. A dull roar thrummed just within his ears, like the sound of a far-off ocean. When it finally subsided, it was replaced with the sound of gentle knocking and, after a brief pause, the creak of a door opening.

Q managed to sit up just as Bond’s tall, blond form entered the room, but he was too caught up in his afterglow to do anything other than watch as the agent’s too-blue eyes looked him over slowly. There was a long silence between them as the Alpha registered the scene: Q lying in the rumpled sheets, his hair disheveled, a glazed, satisfied look on his face. Then, his voice as steady as ever, Bond finally spoke.

“You can shower if you’d like.” He gestured with a powerful arm to indicate the ensuite washroom. Q didn’t even try to look; he was too busy studying the light in Bond’s blue eyes and fighting against his own instincts to crawl over and wrap himself around the agent. Strangely, he felt no embarrassment, but he chalked it up to the heady mix of hormones and hangover that was currently clouding his brain.

“I’m washing your clothes. They should be finished soon.” Bond looked Q over once more, his gaze lingering just a little longer than the Omega would have liked, before slipping from the room and closing the door.

Q let out an irritated sigh and flopped back against the sheets. Reaching up with his clean hand, he ruffled his hair in frustration, trying to ignore the pulses of need that still throbbed within him. Seeing Bond so soon after – well, after  _that_ – was making Q want to do it again, preferably together this time. He’d never felt so profoundly affected by the mere scent of an Alpha, though it was true that being in Bond’s room amplified the effect considerably. Hoping a shower would wash some of the pheromones away, Q forced himself to leave the bed (which proved to be rather difficult as his body, in its post-coital stupor, yearned for the safety and warmth of those smooth white sheets) and staggered into the shower.

Thankfully, the bathroom lights operated on a dimmer switch, so Q could leave them just high enough not to trip over himself without aggravating his migraine – which, now that the rush of sex was over, had returned with a vengeance. More intense than the pain, however, was the surge of hatred Q felt swelling within his chest. As he turned on the shower and stepped under the hot spray he had to grimace to hold back tears, which only served to make him angrier with himself. He hadn’t cried in years; there was too little point to it, too little benefit.

As the water sluiced over his angular body Q’s thoughts flew back in time, analyzing every moment he could remember from the night before. He was unable to understand why his heat was so strong now, why he couldn’t control it even with the suppressants, why the sight of uncharacteristic warmth in Bond’s eyes had made him vomit. No matter how hard he tried to piece it together he failed. His mind was still fuzzy and his body still wanted more, wanted to be touched and fondled and fucked in ways he’d never allowed himself to want before.

The steam from the shower was annoying him more than it was alleviating his stress, so with a quiet growl he yanked at the taps to turn off the water and stepped out of the shower. Grabbing the nearest towel he could find, he gave himself a cursory rubdown and scrubbed at his hair almost violently before he wrapped the terrycloth around his waist and stepped back out into the bedroom.

Q had half-expected to be greeted by Bond, but instead there was only a small pile of neatly-folded clothes on the corner of the bed. Moving forward, Q saw that placed on top of the clothing were two familiar-looking blue pills. Without thinking about it he let out a ragged snarl, the sound rising from deep within his chest and issuing from his lips so strongly that small amounts of spittle went flying into the air.

Suppressants – why was Bond giving him suppressants? Or were they some other kind of pill, disguised in this form so that Q would take them without hesitation and fall completely under Bond’s control? But that didn’t seem right; Bond didn’t like those types of tricks. Even with his guns and radios he preferred clear, direct designs, lethal without any frills. Still, the question remained: why would Bond go against his natural instincts and help Q fight off the hormones invading his body?

“You should take them. They’ll help.”

The voice startled Q and he whipped around, his muscles tensing up and his lips curling back over his teeth. Bond was standing there, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe nonchalantly. If Q were more level-headed he would have forced his lips out of their grimace and back into some semblance of a normal human expression, but he was far too angry to even think about how he looked.

“I thought you wanted to fuck me?” The words burst from his lips, hard and brittle, before he could stop them, but for once they weren’t accompanied by a sense of regret. That question had been bouncing around in his brain for far too long; it was about time he finally came out and asked it directly. Bond didn’t say anything immediately, though. Instead, he gave Q that  _look_ , the same look he’d given the quartermaster when they first met, a look that spoke of deeply-harboured disappointment.

“I don’t want you like this.”

The words were more honest than Q expected, and he found himself blinking once, twice, three times as they ran through his head over and over again. _Like this_ – what was that supposed to mean? Like the animal he was? Like the bitch he was meant to be?

“What about that time in the shower?” he shot back. The words were strong but his voice wavered, betraying his sudden loss of mental balance.

Again, Bond was quiet for a long moment, his eyes sharp and bright as they watched Q’s face. Then, slowly, almost casually, he replied, “I was giving you an offer. You didn’t accept.”

As the words sunk in Q felt an odd pain begin to fill his belly.  _An offer_ . He hadn’t gotten away; Bond had let him escape. If the Alpha had wanted to, he could’ve caught Q easily, taken him there on the cold tiled floor, with or without the quartermaster’s consent. Q had known it, but he’d forced the thought away, had tried to distance himself from the matter entirely as though doing so would make it all disappear.

Yes, Bond had  _offered_ , not taken, the same way he was offering Q the suppressants now. He was giving him a choice. It went against everything Alphas were bred to be, and it made Q’s head spin. There had never been a time when he couldn’t understand something, not if he tried hard enough, but now Bond was standing there as if to taunt him. It was as though he was saying,  _there are more mysteries in the world than you can solve, Q, so stop trying so hard._

In the midst of Q’s thoughts he heard Bond’s voice, but he didn’t manage to process the words before the agent retreated and closed the door behind him with a small  _click_ , leaving Q alone in the room once again. A frustrated grunt escaped his throat and he reached up to rub at his hair, anger and confusion knotting together into a tight ball within his chest.

He looked over at the pile of clothes once more, where his eyes caught on the bright blue of the suppressants.  _An offer_ .

One that he would refuse, as he had refused every time before.

Reaching forward, Q grasped the pills within his fist and, with a harsh growl, threw them across the room. They made small pinging sounds as they hit the wall and furniture before falling to the floor and rolling out of sight. Their disappearance made Q relax slightly, his shoulders sagging, and a sigh expelled itself from his throat. He’d made his decision long ago; there would be no turning back. Accepting one of Bond’s “offers” would undoubtedly lead to accepting the rest of them, and he would not allow that to happen.

Now that the pills were gone, Q realized just how comforted he was by the sight of his clothing. Waking up almost naked had filled his mind with fear, and even if that fear was overpowered by lust it had still remained in the back of his head. Though he wouldn’t admit it, Q was glad that Bond had washed everything; he could only imagine what the fabric had smelled like after last night’s mess. But as he tugged his shirt over his head Q realized that he would have preferred the scent of vomit to the one that was now filling his nostrils: his clothes smelled just like Bond, crisp and clean and full of pheromones, and the scent was almost enough to send Q back to bed for another round with himself.

Being aroused in that manner only made Q angrier, however, and by the time he’d finished zipping up his trousers and tugging on his socks he was a veritable ball of rage. He still couldn’t work out why his emotions were getting the best of him; Omegas were naturally more sensitive, more in touch with their hormonal rhythms, but the suppressants he’d taken yesterday should have been doing their job to keep things in check. In all the time he’d been taking them, the little blue pills had never once failed him. Not until last night.

Q’s mind drifted back to his memories of the nightclub, and without meaning to he called up a vision of the Alpha he’d been dancing with. The man had been handsome in a strange way, a dangerous way, and perhaps that was why Q had been inexorably drawn towards him. He had smelled of cologne and masculinity and tequila, so much tequila – but then again, the scent of tequila had been drifting off of Q’s tongue as well. He couldn’t remember how much he’d had to drink; after the first couple of rounds his head had gone fuzzy and his body had relaxed and all of these feelings had come rushing in on him...

Q stood up straight, a look of realization dawning on his face. Was he really that much of an idiot? The answer had been obvious all along. That’s why Bond had given him the suppressants, that’s why he’d known exactly what to do. The sudden understanding that flooded Q’s mind sparked his anger again and before he realized it he was yanking the door open and storming out into Bond’s living room, his eyes wide, his voice sharp and quick as a whip.

“You knew!” he shouted, advancing on Bond. The agent had been sitting on the sofa – white, uncomfortable-looking, too big for one person – but as soon as he’d heard the door open he had stood and turned to face the now-enraged quartermaster. His expression was as unaffected as ever, though a storm seemed to be stirring in his eyes.

“You knew,” Q repeated, unable to keep the desperation out of his voice. “The alcohol, the reaction – you knew what was going to happen!”

Bond’s voice was as calm and cool as a winter lake. “Of course I did. I thought you knew as well.”

“I’m sorry I’m not an alcoholic,” Q countered immediately, the words cruel and acidic. He’d never mixed suppressants and liquor before; how was he supposed to know what effects it would have? But this time he was just as angry with himself as he was with Bond. He should have known, he should have learned about it, he should have been more careful. It was his own life that was on the line, and the only person he trusted enough to guard it was himself.

Bond’s face remained impassive, but there was heat in his voice now, the same heat that had been there when they’d argued in the alleyway. “You’re being childish, Q.”

“Childish?!” Q’s entire body was trembling with adrenaline. He couldn’t recall ever feeling so furious. “I’m trying to live, 007! I’m trying to be  _normal_ , a concept that you can’t seem to grasp!”

Bond’s expression flickered, sending a strange rush of satisfaction coursing through Q’s blood. The satisfaction transformed back into rage, however, when he heard Bond speak again: “You aren’t normal. None of us are.”

It was the last thing Q wanted to hear, and hearing it now from a lowlife Alpha who’d caused him nothing but misery was just too much. Words began to spill from his mouth, rough and raw and hurt, and with every sentence his voice grew louder and more frenetic. “You have no right to meddle in my life! Why can’t you get it through your head? I don’t want to fuck you, I don’t want to be your mate!”

A look of concern crossed Bond’s face and he murmured “Q,” but the Omega was too far gone to notice. His head was pounding, red was flashing behind his eyes, but he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. The words were coming on their own now, his rant a stream of consciousness composed only of the feelings he’d been bottling up since this whole mess began. “I’ll never belong to anyone, do you understand?!” His voice was almost a shriek at this point, two octaves higher than usual, as tense and tight as a too-taut bowstring. “I’m never going to bond with anyone, I’m never going to have a mate, and I’m bloody well never going to have a child with someone like you!”

Bond’s expression shifted then, his features taking on a look that Q could not recognize, but before he could figure out what it was the pounding in his head reached a fever pitch and a sudden, jagged sensation sent him to his knees, a sharp cry of pain tearing itself from his throat as his hands flew to his temples. It felt as though someone was trying to saw his skull in half; he’d had migraines before, but never anything like this. Very faintly, he wondered why people ever thought drinking was a good idea, but before he could curse the concept of a hangover any further he felt a warm, strong hand touch his shoulder.

He wasn’t sure why he reacted the way he did; perhaps it was instinct, something telling him to protect himself, or maybe it was his emotions again, the rage telling him to use as much force as possible to kill everything he could lay his hands on. Whatever the reason, he let out a bark-like sound and slapped Bond’s hand away, his nails catching on the Alpha’s skin and leaving long stripes of red just above the wrist. He heard Bond hiss in pain, but it was quiet and restrained; what was a scratch from a weak little Omega compared to gunshots and torture?

A tense silence filled the room. The two men were still for a few moments, their breathing the only communication they shared. Then, wordlessly, Q rose to his feet, fighting off the throbbing in his head as he made his way towards the door. His heart was pounding and he could still feel spikes of adrenaline coursing through his body, but his mind was blank. It felt as though he were moving through a daydream.

“Q,” came Bond’s voice, tinged with an bitter fragility that the agent had never shown him before. “Where are you going?”

Q didn’t know. He felt as though every thought he’d kept in his mind had flown away like dead leaves on an autumn breeze. He paused, his hand resting on the doorknob, and when he replied he didn’t look up.

“Tell Moneypenny to fuck off,” he said, his voice weak but harsh. Then he opened the door and slipped through, not waiting to hear what Bond had to say in return.


End file.
